


Excerpts from "The Weirdest 100 Years of My Life" by James Buchanan Barnes

by dreamingformuses



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, Brooklyn, Confessions, Gay, M/M, Memoirs, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, drunk! steve, pre-serum stucky, written by Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 19:58:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16501781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingformuses/pseuds/dreamingformuses
Summary: After he got out of cryo, Bucky couldn't remember a lot. Steve thought it would be a good idea for Bucky to write a memoir to help him sort out his memories. These are excerpts from his book, the "The Weirdest 100 Years of My Life"





	Excerpts from "The Weirdest 100 Years of My Life" by James Buchanan Barnes

**Author's Note:**

> This fic doesn't have a lot of plot??? It's Bucky telling his life story- but the parts we didn't see in the movies.

You see, Steve always ran cold. Ever since before the serum. Especially before the serum. You can imagine what it was like on those cold, dark February nights in New York. The kid was practically an ice block. When he was really young, it didn’t stop him from going out to play in the sludgy snow, and as a gangly teenager, it didn’t stop him from picking a fight with every other guy on the block. It was becoming a bit problematic, because more often than not, Steve came home with a busted lip or a black eye.

I, of course, got fed up with this pretty quickly. After all, I was the one who had to drag him out of the back alleys when things got a little too hairy. And, the worst part is, he always had honorable intentions. It’s hard to hate a person just trying to do some good in the world. Steve always had an excuse, whether it was, “They were trying to pickpocket an old man!” or “They were botherin’ some young lady who wanted them to leave!” I would just sigh, and shake my head, and put a bandage over whatever was bleeding.

Sometimes, just to make me mad, he would take those cold, skinny fingers, and lay them across my cheek or the back of my neck. I remember one time, when I was bending down to wrap a bandage around his skinned knee, and he draped his hands across my neck. I almost socked him in the eye. He didn’t learn his lesson, and the next time, he shoved them up my shirt. I pretty much jumped out of my pants.

Believe it or not, I still felt sorry for him. When we were both working double shifts, and still didn’t have enough money to pay for the heat, we put our jackets on, and just climbed into Steve’s bed together. For survival reasons, obviously. The skinny little beanpole would just curl up next to me and try and leech as much of my body heat that he could from me. And I let him. I figured he needed it more than I did. I didn’t want him to get sick again.

He was sick a lot. I’m really surprised I wasn’t as well, considering how much time I spent with him. He was always coughing, and something was always aching. Often, we didn’t have enough money for all the medicines he needed. We usually tried to cure everything by warm baths, soup, and pure hope. One time, in the dead of winter, he caught pneumonia. I asked the neighbors if they had any extra pillows or blankets, and I just lay him down in our bed and piled them on top of him. I gave him some soup, and he went to sleep. All the old women offered us their homemade remedies, which we gladly accepted. You’d be surprised what works.

He woke up one night coughing. Huge, wet, chest-rattling coughs. I was sleeping on the floor in the same room, and I got up to run and get him some water. We tried everything to get it to stop, and that fit still lasted a good hour or so. When he was finally all coughed out, he lay back into the pillows and just reached for my hand. He looked like a little china doll right then. I don’t remember much these days, but I do remember how pale and breakable he looked in that moment. His hand was trembling until I took it in my own. It was so cold. I grabbed his other hand and sandwiched it between my own. I held them for a long time, and said, “Stevie, I think your fingertips are colder than the Arctic Sea at night in December.” He just laughed.

After a little while longer, he looked at me and asked if I would get in the bed with him. I didn’t say no. I couldn’t. Partially because he needed my warmth, and partially because I wanted to feel him next to me. I’m sure you all know that nowadays, we’re officially together. If you didn’t, A) now you know, and B) you’re not as smart as you think you are. We weren’t subtle, even back in the 30s. But back then, I lived for the days that he would ask me to sleep next to him.

I wanted to feel what little warmth he could offer. I wanted to feel him in my arms, with his sharp hip bones pressed into my side. I don’t know what he was thinking then, but I know I liked it, because I could pretend that we were together. I can’t tell you how many times, after I was sure he was asleep, that I whispered “I love you” into the crook of his neck. When the sun rose again, and I had stayed in that bed for as long as humanly possible, I took as much time as I could while getting out of it. Most days, the thing that brought me home was the possibility of that happening again.

*<^>*<^>*

My favorite memory of Steve is when we went on a double date together. We each had brought along a dame, but were significantly more interested in each other than we were in them. It was one of the rare times we experienced New York’s nightlife and all it had to offer. There was this club in Brooklyn, that I can’t remember the name of for the life of me, that one of my co-workers had told me was the place to go for dancing. And so I dragged everyone there, and got squished into this tiny bar with a dance floor.

A jazz band played in the corner, and it looked like the saxophone soloist was having the time of his life. He was moving even more than some of the people on the dance floor were. Anyways, long story short, Steve got completely hammered and asked me to dance with him. The band began to play an upbeat swing song. Most of the people were gone by that ungodly hour, and I was dancing my heart out with him. I was twirling him around, dipping him, and generally taking up a lot of space. Our dates got bored of watching us, so I think they left sometime after midnight.

That was the first time I ever kissed Steve was outside that bar. At that point, I’m not even sure what time it was. It was after the band packed up and left, though. I gathered his coat, and buttoned it up all the way to his rosy cheeks. I guided him through the door, and into the frosty night air. The following conversation happened something like this:

Steve: You know, Buck, I had a lot of fun.

Me: Not all that often you get to do that, eh? Our dates didn’t have fun.

Steve: I didn’t even look at… whats-her-name. I was too busy looking at you.

Me: Lookin’ at me? Why?

Steve: ‘Cause you’re handsome. And a great dancer. But handsome, too.

Me: You’re pretty good looking yourself, Rogers.

At this point, I was internally freaking out. I wasn’t sure whether this was Steve or the alcohol talking. My best friend, who I had known and loved for years, just complimented me in a not-so-hetero way.

Steve: I like you.

Me: I like you too.

Steve: No, no. Don’t be stupid. I _like_ like you.

Me: I’m not quite picking up what you’re laying down.

Steve: Do I have to spell it out for you, Barnes?

Me: I’m not as smart as you think I am.

What he didn't know is that I was lying. I knew exactly what he was trying to get across. I just wanted to hear him say the words I had imagined him telling me for years.

Steve: James Barnes, I’m in love with you.

Me: You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.

I guess he was feeling a little promiscuous, because he grabbed my tie, and led me into a back alley and pushed me up against the wall. It was dark, and the only source of light came from a window at least three stories up. He looked a little scared, but I placed my hand on the side of his face, and we kissed. I wish I could say that fireworks went off at that exact moment, or something cliche like that. Instead, it just felt right. Like something was missing, and was just put back into place. When we finally got home, we didn’t have mind-blowing sex or anything crazy. We did the same thing we always did, and got in the same bed. The only thing that was different was that I held him a little tighter, and he scooted a little closer.

Pages 73-82

**Author's Note:**

> only my second fic, but i got inspired after my first one was pretty well-recieved. (check it out! its named "Trick or Treat at Stark Tower". kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. also, i don't really have a posting schedule, but i'll try my best to upload at least once a week.


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